


Azure And Scarlet, Let’s Make Violet

by Pink_and_Velvet



Series: The Colours Of Our Lives [1]
Category: Duran Duran, Duran Duran (Music Videos)
Genre: Beaches, Boats and Ships, Body Worship, Clothes Sharing, Clothing Kink, Colours, Fireflies, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff and Angst, Following, Friends to Lovers, Hand Kink, Kissing, Love On The Water, M/M, Moonlight, Music Videos - Freeform, Pining, Rio, Self-Doubt, Wandering eyes, Yachts, rhythm section, serenades, sunset
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-05
Updated: 2020-04-05
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:01:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23493634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pink_and_Velvet/pseuds/Pink_and_Velvet
Summary: Wherever Azure goes, Scarlet will follow; without knowing just how beautiful the blending of their colours could really be.
Relationships: John Taylor/Roger Taylor (Duran Duran)
Series: The Colours Of Our Lives [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1761394
Comments: 5
Kudos: 13





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Somewhat inspired by the beautiful rhythm section ‘sharing’ their suits. With John’s lanky-ass arms half out of Roger’s sleeves and Roger is somewhat drowning in John’s blazer. They’re too adorable. ❤️💙

_1982_

_Antigua_

“ _You know you’re something special and you look like, you’re the best!_ ”

Stumbling, never would he be the slightest bit graceful, John clambered up to the deck. The sun was setting, basking the sky in an inky purple that was fading into a dusty pink, painting them with it. Coating them in a fine pastel, they were sparkling with it.

“The others _disembarked_ ,” he tried his hand at the boat lingo, “hours ago. What are ya still doing up here?”

John continued stumbling his way over as he spoke, clutching to the hand rails as he did so.

“Gettin’ ya sea legs on?”

They weren’t moving, the tide was coming it but they were still bobbing more so than he would’ve liked.

John coughed, “Roger?”

Roger glanced upwards from behind the gigantic wooden wheel. John could just about make out his silhouette, he was a blur of the finest azure being interrupted by the crude brown wood in his path. Before, John could only see his hands. His strong hands, enjoying the lack of callouses bought about by the intense recording of the album, gripping tight to the wood.

_His hands are really something, soft and supple. Talented, of course, strong… masculine and strong…_

Shaking his thoughts from him, John’s gaze fell upon Roger again who was now stood braced up against a pole in the middle of the yacht. He had his arms folded, sleeves rolled to bare his delightfully tanned skin and one leg crossed. Like John, he was wearing his favourite pair of no longer so white jazz shoes although, not that John would ever notice, Roger’s pair would always remain that much whiter. Better taken care off, looked after, so to speak.

“Whatcha doin?” John stretched it out, sidling up on Roger’s side.

The water bobbed, John lost his balance again; heading straight into the pole. He clutched at it to steady himself, tugging at the drummer’s lapels in the process.

They broke away, John coughed.

“ _Froggy_ likes his water, huh?” He choked out, eyes drooping to the floor.

“I just wanted a little time up alone here, John,” Roger began, helping the bassist to straighten back up, “it’s been a while since I’ve been by the water.”

John’s brows furrowed, he cocked his head.

“I was just checking her out, is all.” Roger’s voice was smaller than usual, as though he seemed somewhat ashamed in having snuck away. Snuck back to the yacht, lured in by her and enslaved by his temptations.

“That’s not a very _Froggy_ thing to say at all,” John noted with a grin. “You prefer she take you on a _wild_ ride, the wind in your hair, the breeze hitting you in the… uh.. the, you know, damn it.” He ran a hand through his mousey brown fringe, pulling off his fedora, “some… other b- _boat_ stuff.”

John stumbled backwards, it wasn’t the yacht’s fault this time.

Roger’s gaze hadn’t left his form the whole time. His silken suit was glistening under the sun light as it bled into the night, seeming to light up his pasty skin and tint him in a fine scarlet sheen. John felt a little scrutinised, hot under the collar. But he wasn’t wearing a shirt, there was no collar to burn up under. Only fishnet. The white fishnet shirt that he and Roger shared between them, though John’s nipples couldn’t really be seen through like Roger’s dark own could be.

_Where had that thought come from?_

John coughed, sending his gaze out to the sea.

Roger was speaking again, voice fading in and out as John fought to keep his focus elsewhere. Roger was strolling around the deck, he supposed, inspecting the ropes and sails. _That was the sort of thing Roger would do_. He payed close attention to everything around him, keeping mute, never missing a single beat. He was naturally intuitive but that tended to go unnoticed.

John jumped, there was a smooth hand on his satin shoulder pad. He swung his gaze to the side, asking the drummer to repeat himself. His face was now a shade redder, wind swept fringe falling into his eyes. John cursed, trying to shake it away so he could see Roger again. See him properly, lose his gaze in the blazing blue that coated his muscled arms, toned chest and legs.

“John?”

“Huh?”

“I said,” Roger’s voice was soft, as were his lips. Now moist, as his tongue dropped down to lick at them.

John coughed again.

“Why did you come out here? We’re you looking for me?”

John’s reply wasn’t very convincing, stuttering, he threw his weary gaze back out to sea.

“We’re you _spying_ on me, John?”

John threw his head up, spinning round to face Roger again. There was a small, downtrodden look painting his handsome face, pouty lips and eyebrows furrowed.

“Can’t I have a moment, alone?”

“ _No_.”

“Why not?”

Roger kept on speaking, voice soft, yet there was an edge to it. Maybe it was disappointment, in himself or John- the bassist wasn’t sure. He watched as Roger slipped his blazer from his arms and placed it beside him, folding it neatly. John couldn’t really hear his words and untangle them. He let his own silken blazer fall in response.

John stood dumbfounded, blinded, by the beauty stood before him. At this angle, Roger was doused in the low light, jawline defined and cut cheeks heightened. His eyes were sparkling, a flash of something, and John was hooked. Hooked, like and sinker.

Before he could comprehend it, the yacht subtly bobbing beneath his feet, John was shuffling closer and closer. He shot out a shaky hand, then another, to cup the drummer’s face. His skin was smooth, warm and welcoming, John’s palms were up and now he was clutching lightly. Wordlessly, perhaps without a breath, John was leaning down; contorting to mould himself into Roger’s strong body, joining his thin lips with Roger’s plush own. No tongues, no bites or licks, just one slow and thorough caress of beautiful lips.

John smiled as he felt Roger do the same, lips breaking away. Fighting to open his eyes, enhanced lashes fanning, John’s did and his gaze dropped to their feet. Their toes were touching, white and barely white jazz shoes touching: they were ever so close. With a gasp, John felt a deft hand touch his burning cheek, angling his face back up. Their eyes met again, heated brown on brown. The moment was tender, soft, warm and so _inviting_.

John shivered, momentarily reeling from the loss of contact.

Without word, a blazer was being wrapped around his lanky frame. But it wasn’t the usual blaring red, striking satin to cover his shoulders. The colour was alien yet so familiar all at once, ever so blinding but oh so beautiful.

_Did he just?_

The silhouette was already fading into the distance, climbing down so elegantly, as though it was routine, from the deck.

John bought two shaky hands around his arms, with a shiver, sliding them into the sleeves.

It felt different but right.

_Yeah, he did._

There John stood, a speck of clashing red and blue amongst the grand deck. He clutched tight to Roger’s blazer, to _his_ colours that painted John’s slender body, that awoke something from not too deep inside: sparks. They were sparks, they were flames.

He smiled softly to himself, searching for his own beloved _Anthony Price_ suit jacket.

It was nowhere to be seen.

_Did he?_

He threw his head up.

_Yeah, yeah he did._

Catching a chill, a bodily shiver, John began to shuffle his way across the deck. Roger’s drum beat was thrumming rhythmically through him, starting at his toes and right up to the fedora he plonked back onto his head. He was smiling, nice and bright, momentarily puzzled about how to negotiate with the ladder.

Wrapping the azure piece even tighter around him, John clutched tight to the memory, lips aflame with it, as he too disembarked the yacht. 

It would become an icon in and of itself, _herself_ , John was sure. But that meant nothing like what happened on board ever could. 


	2. Chapter 2

There was a momentary pause, a flash of light, as the water began to lap at the bassist’s feet. He hobbled over, prying off shoe after shoe and battling to not collide straight with the tide as it crashed onto the shore.

The gleaming sand was tinted pink, a pastel that appeared to be fading. Like a photograph, worn in with creases at the edges, turning a strange new hue and adopting a new chapter in it’s life. Handled well, preserved. He squinted, catching a sudden sea breeze pounce at his skin; coating it in a fresh sheen of slick through the satin he wore.

As the cool air enslaved him, the shivers running up his jacketed arms and the gold crunching beneath his feet, he continued to trudge on through the miles and miles of peace and harmony. Or rhapsody, rhythm and rhyme, the shore had one of its own. Dancing beneath him, _finding the kind of wind that it needs_ , making its presence known.

John was a mere black speck now, disrupting the otherwise serene backdrop; lost in the thick of it.

But he wouldn’t be, not for long. He was never one for directions, lost amongst the endless swaying palm trees that cast a dark glow down onto the now cream sand below. It has lost its golden shine, the sunlight having thoroughly bled into the sea and waves goodbye.

John was becoming transformed, cast a dark blue in the murky light. Only the azure blazer, which was slightly too short on his arms, that encased his slender frame could still glimmer in the moonlight: cast a blinding silver, lighting up the pasty skin.

He strolled onwards, humming sweet nothings to himself, running a finger up to his lips. He paused, clutching to a palm tree, steadying himself. He just let himself feel. Let himself treasure the heavenly touch as those lips had caressed them, the warmth those lean fingers had bought as they had taken hold of him: bought him back into reality, igniting sparks beneath his already heated skin.

He smiled, lips quirking upwards as he dared to rest a finger on them. To soak up the sensation, to lovingly remind himself just how gentle those lips had been, how light he had felt because of them.

John wasn’t sure of where he was going and yet, he was wandering to where he was. Somehow, clinging to the moonlight that now beat its way around him, his path was lit through tiki torches, candles with flame after flame. The fire, the blaze, he was dancing his way through the inferno: along the path that guided him.

John knew exactly where he was headed, elated for this revelation. His skin was alight, tingling under the blazer as he picked up speed. He was running, kicking the sand up behind his heels, panting wild. Whipping off the blazer, he clutched at it tight; jazz shoes in his other hand. He was sweating, fedora threatening to rip itself from him and ride the wind, losing itself in the Caribbean night sky.

It did just that. A subtle gust and his fedora took flight, whirling it’s way up into the air. John paused, stumbling to catch his breath. His gaze was wide, mesmerised, watching how it twirled above him: seeming to further light the way, beckoning him to follow the newfound illuminations all around.

There were little beams of light. Like fairy lights, small and beautifully tame. They were serene, contrasting well with the harsh blaze that was burning through his irises. John broke out into a brisk walk, then another run. He breezed his way through the island, diving away from the serenity of the sand and embracing himself in the familiarity of the shacks before him.

They had moved from their original hotels, John surprisingly eager to immerse himself in the coastal cottage, small and homely. The shack he wanted was somehow glowing, he prayed that there was still a light on inside. That he would still be awake.

That he wouldn’t burn out John’s spark.

Near drenched in sweat, heart beating far too fast, he staggered his gait and began the final trek. It was harder, he stumbled. Stopped and started. Hunched over to gasp for breath.

That John wouldn’t _dare_ to let his own spark fizzle out.

Then, as though he was carried by the breeze a final time, John composer himself and began to search deep. Deep inside, for the thrumming drumbeat he so desired. The one to accompany his bass, a perfect rhythm section forming inside of him, painting his insides with a newfound warmth: forcing him to carry on.

John took those special steps forward, now face to face with the gorgeous wooden shack, toned black in the midst of the night. However to John, he thanked the fireflies, there was still a glow about the small building. It was welcoming, homely to him somehow. And his own was a further three doors down.

A shiver overtook him, yet he didn’t let go of the blazer in his grip. He placed his shoes on the door mat, kicking them further aside.

Slowly, cautiously, he raised a hand upwards. Hovered. Retreated. Thrown back down in a huff. Shaking his head, he cursed himself for his cowardice, bringing his hand back up before his face; beside the small eyepiece.

He knocked once. Twice. Three times and the sound was soft, barely audible.

He didn’t think he had the strength, enough of a drumbeat within himself to knock again. To gain in intensity, to ride out the melody alone.

Silence.

John stepped backwards, floorboard creaking under his heel.

_The lights of hope were fading quickly_ , he felt his own spark begin to flicker. Waver, beneath his skin.

“Because I’m,” he engulfed a shaky breath, more than embarrassed for his timid effort, “Lonely In _My_ Nightmare, please,” he gulped, shaking his head, “ _let me in_.”

He bought a hand back up to his face, shuffling forward to face the dreaded door a final time.

He knocked once. Twice. Three times with force, finding his beat.

“ _And there’s barren in your garden, let me in_.” He rasped, tears brimming in his eyes at the mere thought of being turned away. “ _There’s heat beneath your- my winter.”_

John began gnawing into his bottom lip, determined to keep himself quiet after that pathetic little outburst. The lonesome, pitiful vocal. There was a light on, a low buttery glow seeping from underneath the door. Fighting to break free perhaps, to lure John in further.

“Rog please, _let me in_.”

Without further ado, the door was unlatched and John’s stomach dropped. He was cast in the yellow light, pasty skin dimmed with it, blinded by it. Shining because of it.

John’s gaze widened, full of warmth and adoration for the sight before him. The moonlight behind John was no longer enough, too dark and cold, sombre. The small lamps from inside were calling to him, he wanted to immerse himself in that heat.

Let the sparks from beneath his skin burn, burn bright.

_Burning you up. Ready or not._

John smiled, tears threatening to stain his perfect little face. He bared his teeth, cheekbones and dimples, as he watched that hand. The ‘come in’ motion, dropping low and swooping to the side.

The heat beneath John’s own winter, _let_ himself in.

Closing the door, John basked in the sights, how well kept the small shack was. It appeared more like a lodge, a fancy one in which he felt more at home in. It was nothing like his own. There was a new sense of purpose here, a whole new individuality.

A whole new _beat_ to his _bass_.

Swinging his gaze back down, he caught sight of it and couldn’t help but chuckle. He was trembling now, tears rolling down. He didn’t know why, or when but that didn’t matter.

His eyes took in his own scarlet blazer, lovingly draped over the back of the small sofa. They raked over it, sucking in every detail: how every crease seemed to have been perfectly ironed out.

How every imperfection had simply been bled away.

**_Some people call it a one night stand but,_ **

****

John held out a hand.

**_We can call it—_ **

It was willingly taken.

His tears were being wiped, he giggled through the cries.

John craned his neck down, suddenly no longer shy. He searched for those parted lips, hands trailing down naked torso to settle on cut hips. John himself was leaning into it, contorting his lanky frame to meet the small and muscular one before him. Their lips danced a slow kiss, full of rhythm and rhyme, swing and sway, the perfectly pitch.

**_Paradise._ **

****

There was a whimper as he broke away, John already missed him terribly. He took this moment to step back, to revel in the beautiful sight before him.

Roger was shirtless, exposing his gorgeously tanned skin and heavenly muscles. There was a small flush caressing his chest, his pecs. He was breathing in and out. In and out. Nice and slow, always controlled and thoroughly on the beat.

John’s gaze fell to his nipples, dark and hard. The small mounds were drawing him in, into the light chest hair that dusted the skin between them. He followed the torturous trail of chest hair further down, and down, before he stopped. Mouth watering, fumbling over what he could say. Roger’s trousers button was undone, the zip having slipped down ever so slightly. Exposing the groove of his hips, he had never seen them appear as delectable as this before, ever so teasingly.

John swallowed audibly, then his tongue darted out to lick at his bottom lip.

“You’re.. uh, you’re.”

Roger was smiling, full, he was beaming with it. Backlit by the gorgeous buttery light, he let his hands rest on his hips and, unless John was mistaken, he cocked them forward. Or out. Or both.

John choked on air.

Roger was laughing now, rolling his eyes and laughing. John had never heard him like this before: tones so hearty yet almost tinkling, all at once. So serene and so heartfelt. So small yet so dominating, once again writing the sheet music for John.

“You’re, Rog… you are…”

“I’m what, Johnny?” His voice was calm, strong and firm.

John straightened up. It dropped off of his lips with such a conviction, such a need, that it surprised them both.

“ _Beautiful_.”

The chuckle that he elicited from Roger was everything. Just everything. John was throughly lost in the trance, how those chocolate browns sparkles and how those dimples appeared. How rhythmical his laugh really was, how easy it was for John to find his own voice, his own pitch and, once again, formulate the perfect duet.


	3. Chapter 3

Falling back into the pristine sheets, he was giggling as he kicked the light duvet away and flung the pillows to the floor. He was chuckling as his body was blanketed, laughing through the little hungry sounds that dropped all around him.

John craned his neck upwards, sneaking desperate kiss after kiss, letting his fingertips run up and down that powerful body. He caught Roger’s shoulder’s, held on tight to them, before guiding him down to meet John’s own quivering lips again. The touch was hot, maddening, the flick of tongues was driving them both further from reason.

Roger broke away, sending his lips in a smooth, rhythmical trail down John’s cut jawline. Down his neck, kissing his collarbone, kissing between his collarbones into the little patch of sweat that had formed there.

John was moaning under him, twisting his body upwards and grinding slowly into the drummer’s lustful heat.

He watched, eyes wide and blown dark, as Roger shimmied down his body, as Roger’s sensual lips licked and sucked their way lower. And lower. _Torturously_ lower, igniting flames in his wake. At that John just couldn’t look anymore, he was throwing his head back and hissing, body arching upwards, desperate and longing.

Roger’s slick fingers plunged lower, circling his hole before inching inside. John was whining, shifting and shivering beneath him. The sweat was dropping from his fringe, he hastily wiped at his eyes. His tears were beautiful, he was finally baring a smooth and vulnerable side.

John yelped as those fingers were removed, gasping for air as he heard the familiar rip of the wrapper. He steadied himself, locking gazes again, with nothing but a beaming smile painting the flush in his face. He nodded once, solemn, as the drummer took hold of his hips, steadied him and guided him. Guided him _home_.

John was finally ready to let Roger, _his_ Roger, tame him.

“ _Sing, sing_.” It came out breathless.

Roger’s lips were mere inches from him, grinding in slow and steady motions, hips colliding and swaying in time. John’s head was thrown back and eyes screwed shut, gasping as Roger’s hot tongue licked its way down his elongated throat. Their rhythm increased, lento to largo, and they were kissing again. Sharing that heat, stealing each other’s breath and bleeding life back into each other.

John was finally ready to let Roger open him up, to _love_ him.

“ _Blu-ue_ ,” they cracked.

Their rhythm increased, adagio to andante, as their lips parted and John gripped tighter to Roger’s sweaty shoulders.

“ _Silv-er,_ ” they cried.

Together they found their beat, rode out their high, their crescendo. The wild crashing of cymbals and the smash of the snare voiced how they reached their intense peak, shivering and jolting, before fighting to come down, fighting to beat their pulses back to a rhythm that they could handle.

John was finally ready to _let himself_ love Roger, his little frog, back.

**Author's Note:**

> Here’s a new fic of mine, inspired by Roger’s special memories on the island:
> 
> https://archiveofourown.org/works/24390307/chapters/58830598
> 
> And a set of tumblr moodboards I made to go with this little series:
> 
> https://madamepinkvelvet.tumblr.com/post/619197006566588416/azure-and-cream-what-a-dream-with-a-little

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Azure And Cream, What A Dream](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24390307) by [Pink_and_Velvet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pink_and_Velvet/pseuds/Pink_and_Velvet)




End file.
